Tears of Blood
by LadyDunla
Summary: The Battle of the Five Armies, as seen by some of its participants. Not all heroes are named in the stories and songs, but that doesn't mean they weren't there.
1. The Battle Has Only Begun

**Hello, dear readers. This is my take on the Battle of the Five Armies, through the eyes of several "footsoldiers," aka the ones who don't call the shots. This won't be a terribly long story, but it's a battle, so yes, people are going to die.**

**Nevertheless, I hope you'll enjoy the tale. Reviews would be greatly appreciated.**

* * *

**Tears of Blood**

**Chapter 1**

**The Battle Has Only Begun**

He had seen too much, Iwar thought. Sometimes it was really as simple as that. He had seen far too much. He didn't often feel old, but these past few weeks had made him feel the full weight of his almost sixty winters. Some considered him too old to be here, citing his age and his undeniable skill at the anvil as good excuses for him not to join the battle.

Iwar disagreed. What else was there left for him in life but to try and kill as many Orcs as he could? He had no one left to go back to, and maybe his presence here could save one life, the life of someone who did have something or someone to return to after this impending battle. If he had voiced this intention to anyone around him, they would have said that he was suicidal, and that this was no attitude to enter a battle with. They might even consider him a risk, which was why he hadn't told them. His motivations were his own and no one else's.

And it felt good to stand here. For the first time since the dragon had come and had laid waste to his home, he felt like he was doing something, something that mattered. When Smaug had come and burned the house, which contained his wife, children and grandchildren, he had been away, in his forge, trying to finish an order. Only by pure chance had one of his customers had the presence of mind to drag him out and into a boat. In the darkest hours of the night, he sometimes cursed the unknown man who had saved his life. Without his family, life seemed utterly pointless.

There was little use in staying with the charred remains of a town he'd lived in his whole life, and so he had marched on the Lonely Mountain, like so many others had done. Most of them blamed the Dwarves for wakening the dragon and setting it on their town, but Iwar was too numb to feel anything. He just felt empty. There was no rage, no longing for bloody vengeance, as there was in so many of the younger men. And what did rage matter anyway? No amount of vengeance would bring his loved ones back, and neither would hoards of gold restore them to life. Of course he agreed that the Dwarves should pay. It would not right the wrongs, but it was a necessity of life that they paid. Winter was approaching all too fast and the survivors needed shelter, food, medicine, all of which could be purchased with the gold the so-called King under the Mountain was withholding for reasons far beyond Iwar's comprehension. But then, politics had always been far beyond him.

He was not even sure how it had come to this: him standing side by side with Dwarves, ready to face an army of Orcs that had seemingly come completely out of the blue. He could see the Dwarves nearby. Iwar had not seen many of their kind during his life, and somehow he was taken aback by just how dangerous they looked, despite their short statures. Not so long ago he had feared to face them on the battlefield as foes, but here they were, allies.

Iwar took it all in his stride. There were worse people to fight and die alongside with.

* * *

He was too young, Aennen had been told, and he had seen too little. He disagreed. He had seen more than three hundred summers and had faced more spiders than he cared to count. And he had come out victorious, had he not? He had not gotten as much as a single scratch in the last fifty years and that, he believed, was something he could indeed be proud of. Whichever way you sliced it, there was no denying that he was an experienced warrior of some skill. He believed he had more than earned a place in his king's army.

His captain had not agreed. Aennen had been treated to many arguments of how a battle was different from dealing with spiders. At first it had looked like the only foes he would need to fight would be Dwarves. Aennen didn't have a problem with that. His kin had known trouble with the Dwarves for as long as he had lived, and since long before that. They were greedy, and a bunch of backstabbing liars as well, not to mention that they were violent. Not all that long ago they had attacked his people at their merry-making in the woods, and then they had escaped captivity by a backdoor, which told Aennen all he needed to know about their characters. Suddenly the stories came to life, all the things he'd heard about Dwarves suddenly became real. The things they had done were unforgiveable. Unleashing a dragon on a town of defenceless people? That was something so low that Aennen didn't even have the words for it. Were they so selfish that they did not care for the consequences of their actions? The current situation seemed to be suggesting just that. But then, what was he expecting from the people who valued lifeless stones above everything else?

He could see them now, standing, waiting for the army of Orcs to arrive. They were so small, about the height of children, but far more dangerous. They were heavily armed, and rather grim-looking as well. Worthy opponents in a fight they would be, Aennen assumed, although it was unlikely he would ever find out the truth of that now. Instead he would be faced with Orcs. As much as Aennen disliked Dwarves – and with good reason – Orcs were an abomination, creatures that should never have existed to begin with, that should have been wiped from the face of the earth two ages ago, when Morgoth fell. Instead, unlike their master, they had endured and had been a stain on Middle Earth ever since. Fighting them was a good cause.

'They say there are many,' he remarked to his lifelong mentor, an Elf by the name of Caran. He had also been the one to try and stop Aennen from leaving the relative safety – if one disregarded the many spiders – of Mirkwood.

Caran, a veteran of more wars than Aennen knew about, permitted himself a small smile. 'Yes,' he said. 'There always are with Orcs.' The look he bestowed on his protégé was almost sympathetic.

'I can do what needs to be done,' Aennen said. 'You know me. My aim is true.' And it was. Caran would be foolish to deny that when he had been the one to offer him training. 'It will not err today.' It never did when he was chasing down spiders.

'You have never seen battle before,' Caran gently reminded him. 'It is not the same.'

Everyone told him that. Battles were bloody, people perished, but Elves had the advantage of superior skill and speed. Orcs had no advantages at all. They only had numbers and strength. They could be easily outwitted. Besides, as much as Aennen valued Caran's advice and guidance, it was also widely known that Caran was a more solemn soul than was good for him. Rumour had it that he had been in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, before he had somehow ended up with King Thranduil's retinue. But battles like that were not fought in the world today, not anymore.

'But similar enough,' he insisted.

Caran's grey eyes regarded him calmly, with just a hint of sympathy in them. 'I hope you won't have cause to think differently, _mellon_.'

Some would call him arrogant. Aennen preferred confident. After all, would it not be an insult to his people if he doubted their ultimate victory? It simply would not be right. And they had allies, people who fought this battle with them. The Orcs would not have anticipated such an alliance, such an unlikely alliance. Had something like this – Elves, Men and Dwarves fighting for a single cause – even been seen in this age? No, they would never see this coming.

'I won't have such cause,' he responded, feeling his bow in his hand. The familiar feel of his weapon in his hand made him feel safe, made him feel invincible. He may be inexperienced, but he didn't doubt his skills, not even for a second.

The sight of the enormous army of Orcs made him lose heart immediately, though.

* * *

Lóni remembered. As the masses of Orcs chased the light rear-guard, intended to lure the enemy into the trap that had been set for them, he remembered. And in his head he went back, back to a very similar day more than a century ago, when he had faced the hordes of Orcs in the valley of Azanulbizar. He could still see his brother's face, determined and excited in equal measure, gripping his axe tightly. It was Róni's first battle, and he had been determined to prove himself. And he had done exactly that. Róni was the only reason Lóni was standing here today, while his brother's flesh had long since been burned on the pyres they had been forced to make after the battle, along with their father's.

He had cut off his beard in grief then, had sworn never to set foot on another battlefield again, not ever again. Yet here he was, gripping his axe with all the determination he could muster. When the war call came, he could not stay behind. It was in his blood. It was loyalty. Dwarves did not leave kin to fend for themselves when they were set upon by Elves and Men and Orcs. Dwarves were loyal. It was true, it was not a trait they were most commonly known for. Men and Elves thought them greedy and stubborn, the latter of which they undoubtedly were, no mistake about that. But they were loyal, first and foremost. They had come when King Thrór had been so brutally murdered and defiled as well, no matter what the cost may be, to avenge their king. And so when Lord Dáin had called his people to arms, he had answered the call.

But he had more reasons to be here than mere loyalty to kin. No, he needed to correct that. Loyalty to his _close_ kin was what really led him to be here on this day. Dari, his son, was standing next to him, axe in hand, eyes sparking with determination and excitement in equal measure. The rest of him was as unmoving as the rock from which their race was rumoured to be carved. He couldn't fool his father though. It was as clear as daylight to Lóni that his son was only waiting for the sign to throw himself into the fray.

Loyalty was not as much of an issue for Dari as it was for Lóni, he knew. Dari was burning with indignation for the wrongs done to their kin. He had been prepared to kill as many Elves as it took to have justice, and now he was just as passionate about slaying Orcs. He had been ranting about making nice with Elves, but there had not been much choice. Orcs were the enemies of every living being on and under the earth. Elves were capable of goodness, Orcs were not. It was as simple as that. Azanulbizar had driven that lesson home to him.

'We can't trust them,' Dari muttered, eyes fixed on the elves rather than on the Orcs, something Lóni recognised as a dangerous and often fatal mistake. As justified as Dari's distrust was, it would be fatal if they did not trust their own allies. The only ones to benefit from such a thing were the Orcs.

'As much as they dislike us, they hate Orcs more,' Lóni said, but he knew that he was not truly denying what his son was saying, and Dari was bright enough to know that. They both knew the tale of how King Thranduil had turned his back on the exiles of Erebor when the dragon came, and the fact that he was now here with the Men of Lake-town to demand a share of the treasure, that did not raise him any higher in Lóni's esteem. But a common enemy could unite even the oldest of foes. Lóni didn't trust the Elves, not with his life or those of his kin, but he trusted them not to turn against them during the battle to side with the Orcs. That was enough to be getting on with. He said as much to his son.

Dari gave him a curt nod. 'Aye, they wouldn't,' he agreed. 'But who's to say what will happen after.'

Lóni shared those concerns. After the battle, all the issues that had brought them to the brink of war with Thranduil and his Elves would still be there, would still need to be resolved, and Lóni could not see any party budge. And he would think his king lesser for giving in, too. This was the wealth of their people, and Elves and Men deserved no part of it.

But now was not then. Now they were in an uneasy alliance, and there was a battle to be fought. So, when the command came, he gave a battle cry and threw himself into the fray.

* * *

Caran was calm. Outwardly, at the very least. He had seen many battles, and this would not be the worst he had ever lived through. He had lived through the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Sack of Doriath and the battles fought by the Last Alliance. This was no great battle where the fate of the world would be decided. This was a host of Orcs under the command of one other Orc. It was different. There was no Morgoth, no Sauron. All would be well.

But there would be casualties. There always were in a battle, and this would not be an exception. It was the very nature of warfare. And the ones to die would be the young, old and inexperienced. He looked at Aennen, his protégé. It was true what he had said; he had killed many spiders and his aim was good. But he had never killed people. Not that Caran would ever make the mistake of calling Orcs people. Yes, they were sentient beings that resembled the form of the Free Folk somewhat, which put them at least a bit above spiders, but they were cleverer, and maybe even capable of emotions. Caran could not know for sure that they were capable of anything other than hatred and bloodlust, though.

He held his sword, looking out over the scene. The Orcs were close now, here and there people were fighting. It were mostly Dwarves and Men on the field, but his people were joining in now. The number of the enemy was greater than he had anticipated, much greater, and even despite the alliance of the Free Folk, they were outnumbered. This did not mean anything in and out of itself; to be true, he had seen worse odds. But people would die.

He let his eyes wander to the Men and Dwarves. The Dwarves did not show any emotion. If there was anything to be seen, there was determination, defiance. They were not to be defeated, as strong as the rocks they preferred to live under. But not as endurable as those rocks, he observed. They could be wounded and killed, the same as Caran and his kin.

It were the Men who never ceased to amaze him. They were short-lived and so very, very fragile. Sixty, seventy years was their lifespan, if they weren't taken beforehand by battle, illness or accident, and then their life was extinguished. For them to risk their lives was something Caran had always counted as a braver thing than for Elves and Dwarves. Some of the faces of the Men he saw betrayed that they had not even yet reached adulthood. Other faces were old, too old to be here.

And yet they were here, Elves, Dwarves and Men united in a single goal. The likes of this Caran had not seen since the Last Alliance. Memories stirred and for a moment he was not standing in the desolation of a dead dragon, but at the Black Gates of Mordor. So long ago, and yet this day had the same feel to it.

Caran had come here, expecting war with the Dwarves. A war, he believed, they had all but asked for. Did they not know how much the dragon had taken from his home, only to hoard it jealously under the Lonely Mountain until the day of its death? Did they not think the Elves too had suffered under Smaug's reign of the region? Were they really as arrogant as to believe that their people were the only ones to lose things they held dear?

Dwarves were greedy. It was a fact commonly known. They had proven that they'd rather starve to death than to hand over a single coin in reparation for the damage Smaug had done to the town of Men when they had driven it out of its lair. Caran had never held the Dwarves in very high esteem, even less so after King Thingol had been murdered by them. But they were better than Orcs, and able fighters in a battle. There were worse allies to have in a war.

'Are you ready?' he asked Aennen. The blonde Elf may have seen three hundred summers, but in essence he was as innocent as a child.

Aennen had demonstrated minimal signs of shock when he had seen the enormity of the enemy army, but he had schooled his expression back into one of solemnness. 'I have been ready for more than a century,' he replied. That was the cheek Caran had gotten used to.

Caran only nodded. He was not an Elf of many words, nor was he a poet that he could find the right words that would help his pupil through this battle. And there was no time for such things anymore either. The enemy had walked into the trap blindly and now the trap had sprung. The battle had begun.

* * *

**The story title is taken from the song of the same name by Karliene. The chapter titles come from the lyrics of that song. It seems to suit the story.**

**Next chapter the battle will begin for real. Please review?**


	2. With the Dead Only Growing in Numbers

**Chapter 2**

**With the Dead Only Growing in Numbers**

The trap had sprung and the command to attack had been given. Einar obeyed it without thinking. He had never been in a real battle before. And he had never thought that he would ever be in one. Of course he knew some basic self-defence – this was hardly the first time Orcs ventured this way, although they usually did not come in so great a number – but in essence he was just another fisherman's son, trying to make a living from the fish that lived in the Long Lake.

But that life was gone, burned to ashes, along with his younger sister, Inga. The night that Smaug had laid waste to the town, Einar and his brother Eirek had been away, fishing, safely out of reach. Inga had claimed that she was old enough to be on her own for the night. If anything was the matter, she could always go to the neighbours for help and would they please go now? Einar hadn't liked it. But they needed the fish, they needed the money to be made with them, and in the end necessity had forced his hand. And there was no one to look after Inga. Their mother had died in childbirth five years ago, along with the baby, and their father had drowned three years later. They were on their own, and life in Lake-town was not exactly easy.

He now wished that they had taken Inga with them. She could have slept on the barge, could maybe even have helped out. He had gone over every _what if_ in his head, but in the end it made no difference. Things had happened the way they had and there was nothing Einar or anybody could do to change that.

He could only assign blame, and he laid it on the dwarves' doorstep, where it belonged. They had known the risks, had known what might happen should they waken that beast and kindle its wrath. They had been warned and they had ignored the warning. Now it seemed like all of them were still drawing breath, while so many of Einar's people were no more. It only served to feed his anger. And anger at the Dwarves of Erebor was better than anger at himself. If he let himself feel like that for even a single moment, he might drown in the feeling and never resurface.

Yet here he stood, literally side by side with a Dwarf in heavy armour, ready to take on a mutual foe. Deep down this was the last thing Einar wanted. The only living being he wanted to stab to death were Dwarves. Of course, he hated Orcs, as did everyone else, but it was not them that his fury was directed against. It were not the Orcs that had set the dragon on his sister, not the Orcs that had been throwing caution to the wind. It seemed horribly unfair that they now seemed in danger of actually getting away with their crimes, just because there was a bigger threat.

But this was not the time to begin a feud of his own making. That would jeopardise not only his own life, but the lives of all those around him. And his own people had precious little left to lose. Einar would not have them lose their lives on his account. There was a time and a place for vengeance, and this was neither the time nor the place.

He grasped his sword tightly. It was a good weapon, he had been told, forged by the old man who lived across the road, when there was still a road to cross. But that life was gone, burned to cinders, and he had to fight for those that remained, not for revenge.

The call came and Einar moved with the army. His heart was beating faster now with something that he liked to refer to as anticipation, not fear. Fear didn't feel like excitement. Fear felt like pain and grief and heartache and guilt. He knew that; not long ago he had felt it intensely.

And there was no time to think about anything. The trap set for the orcs had sprung and now it was all Einar could do not to get crushed amongst his fellow warriors, not to get stabbed by swords and not to be driven insane by all the war cries he heard around him. There were many. Orcs made strange guttural noises that could not possibly be words, but that were ever so scary, the Dwarves cried something in a language that Einar could not make anything of either, but that at least sounded like a language. His own people did not have one war cry. Some had the name of their no longer existing town on their lips, others the names of loved ones and some didn't even try to form words; they just threw themselves into the battle with a wordless cry of anger or effort.

Einar didn't make a sound. He just fought. He didn't care about his town; if his sister and neighbours had not lived in it, he might actually have been glad to see it burn. And what use would it be to yell Inga's name when she was dead and these foes were not the ones he so desperately wished to punish for her demise? Silence was better.

And soon there was an end to this part of the battle. The war cries turned to cries of agony and fear. Einar had moved without thinking thus far. There was no room in his head for conscious thought. He only ducked, stabbed and sliced. It was all he could do to stay alive. But it was frightening, more so than he had thought it could ever be. And there were so many Orcs, and there was so much blood, so many pleas for help. His brain screamed at him to run, to get as far away from this place as he could, and he was severely tempted to obey and run, run until he was far away and never look back.

But where could he run? He was surrounded. The Orcs were in front of him, his allies behind and next to him. There was nowhere to go. He could only try and hold his ground. What else was there for it? He didn't want to die. And so he stayed and fought, hoping and praying that this would just end.

_Let it end._

* * *

Iwar had never seen battle. He had made enough weapons during his life to arm most of his allies, but he had never swung a sword, except to test it for balance. There had never been a need. The fact that Lake-town had been built on the Long Lake itself had protected it from most raiding Orc parties. They could shoot them before they got anywhere near the houses themselves. This was different. This was battle, close combat.

But Iwar was not scared. Maybe he had lost the fear when he had decided that he was no longer afraid of death. Maybe he wasn't afraid because he even welcomed the idea of seeing his loved ones again. And truly, he had lived a good life. Among his people he was considered old, even though he was fairly sure that the Dwarf he had ended up next to was several decades older than he was.

The trap had sprung, it was true, but the battle was turning against them. There were shouts from behind. Orcs had either circled round or had been there all along. And their numbers were overwhelming. Not in all his life had the old smith been able to imagine that such an army of those monsters could be amassed. But here they were, and clearly better prepared than Iwar had considered possible. Their arms were no high quality, though, but they were wielded with deadly precision and even if they managed to kill one Orc, there were five others to take its place.

And he was not as young as he used to be. He could feel the exhaustion setting in. Sleepless nights and years without practise conspired to make him slow and weak. But then, he had known in advance that he was unlikely to see another dawn. At this rate, he would not even see the sunset.

'Careful, grandfather.' He almost tripped over a corpse and fell, but a strong hand grounded him in place. Iwar turned to look at his helper, but found he had to look down to find the face that belonged to the voice. A dwarf with flaming red hair and angry grey eyes looked back at him.

Iwar laughed humourlessly. 'Are you not older than I am, Master Dwarf?'

'I am seventy-nine,' the Dwarf replied. Everything about him screamed that he didn't want to have this conversation. Repressed rage was obvious in his features. Rage against what, the old man couldn't say though. It might very well be him; not all that long ago they had been on very different sides of the conflict.

'Then you are,' Iwar said. 'Almost a full two decades older than I am.' Yet there was something in that Dwarf's behaviour that made him think of his young grandson, the grandson who no longer lived, because a dragon had ended his life.

'I care not for your age.' The tone of voice was angry as well.

They were in a quieter corner of the battle, a small space between two man-high rocks. Iwar could not remember how he got to be here. The battle sent all of them moving in directions they had not planned on. But it was likely to be a long way. Now that he was not fighting Orcs and he was standing still, he felt the full impact of more running and fighting than he had done in all his life.

'I am well aware,' Iwar said. 'Nevertheless, I must thank you for coming to my aid when I needed it.' The Dwarf hated him, or at least hated what he stood for, but he had reached out all the same. It was a kindness he had not expected from one of the people who had been ready to take up arms to defend their wealth. He wasn't even sure Dwarves could care about lives. For all he knew they were made of pure greed. He had never seen anything of else of them before now, not in all his long life.

His thanks were met by a very curt nod of the head. Dwarves were so different from Men, and yet this one demonstrated behaviour Iwar judged to be rather human. There was so much anger there. He knew his kind could live long. Among his own kind, this dwarf must still counted as something of a youngster. Wasn't his a life worth saving?

* * *

Dari turned away from the elderly Man. Unlike his kind, age was easy to judge from their faces, and this one was old, in all likelihood far too old to even be on this battlefield. What was he even doing here? It didn't make any sense to Dari. Were Men that eager to risk their lives?

But more than his exasperation over grandfathers on the field of battle he was angry over the fact that apparently even such an old Man would march on the Mountain to demand gold that didn't belong to him. When the call to arms had come, Dari had answered without giving it a second thought. What were Men and Elves thinking to achieve, what were they thinking, trying to lay claim to wealth that was not theirs for the taking? Did they think that the King under the Mountain would just squander the wealth of his ancestors, to give into blackmail to make his foes leave? Well, if that was what they were thinking, they had better think again.

Before a few days ago, Dari had never seen Elves or Men, but he found he was not terribly impressed by them. Maybe it was because their actions disgusted him so, maybe it was because they looked so weak, but the advantage their height gave them – if there was indeed an advantage to that; in Dari's opinion it only served to make them stand out more and make them more vulnerable to enemy arrows – did not make him stare at them in awe.

He didn't even know why he had extended his hand when the old Man stumbled, to stop him from falling. He sure didn't want to be in this battle with such fickle allies. As soon as the battle was over, all the things that had brought them here, they would still be there. Who was to say Men and Elves would not turn on them as soon as the last Orc was dead?

And so it was best to keep his distance from them. He had dawdled here long enough anyway, in the relative safety of this niche. There were Orcs to kill. Those he had seen before and those he could easily deal with, no problem at all. And he was an able fighter, he knew that.

'Try to keep your balance in future, old man,' he barked at his companion. He was loath to turn his back on him, but it would be dishonourable to let such an old person go first into the fray. He had been taught honour, although it usually didn't apply to would-be thieves of his people's wealth. It was somehow different when the would-be thief was so old that he shouldn't even be here at all.

To his surprise he found himself smiled at. 'Aye, that was my intention.'

Dari didn't know what to do with this altogether unexpected kindness. Men were enemies. Well, maybe not right this very minute, but they were unreliable allies, greedy ones, only after things that did not belong to them by any stretch of the imagination. This friendliness made him wary. Elves were infamous for word and mind games, but Men were well-known for their insincerity and treasonous tendencies.

'Good,' he forced himself to say. Now was not the time to turn his allies against him, especially not when they had free access to his back.

He had already turned to go back to the battle and slay as many Orcs as he could get on the receiving end of his axe, but he had looked over his shoulder to convey his answer to the Man, since he wasn't sure he could make himself heard over the noise of the on-going battle otherwise. It was only because of that that he could see the eyes widening in alarm and then the Man was practically jumping at Dari, pushing him to the side.

Dwarves were sturdy, unmovable as the rocks underneath their feet, but Dari was taken by surprise, and he stumbled. The stumbling caused the fall. Not that there was anywhere to fall, strictly speaking. He just bumped against the rock, axe already in hand. It was a reflex born of decades of training.

For a moment he had thought that the Man had turned on him, but then he heard the guttural sounding laughter from the attacking Orc and saw the body of the Man sprawled out on the unyielding floor. The following action was as much one of self-preservation as one of anger: he lifted his axe and hacked the Orc's head clean off. As he watched it roll away, he suddenly wondered where the anger had come from.

* * *

This was not the first battle Caran had been in, and he doubted it would be the last, but already it was turning out to be one of the fiercest he had ever seen in his long life. The first wave of the attack had been all but destroyed in the trap that had been set, and Caran had given himself good reason to hope for the best. But then the second wave of attackers had come, and they had not ended up in the chokehold of the Free Folk. They were everywhere and they came from everywhere.

_They say there are many. _

_Yes, there always are with Orcs. _

But even he had underestimated all their might. Orcs never attacked in small numbers, because that was their strength: numbers. Elves would always have superior skill, and possibly Dwarves had that same advantage. Caran had seen them fight before, and knew them to be strong warriors. Yes, they may have the wits and the know-how to defeat the Orcs, but even an elven warrior could take on only so many before he was overtaken. It was something Caran knew well. Orcs had achieved many a victory over the Elves, something youngsters like Aennen chose to forget, because it didn't suit them. Or maybe they were as arrogant to think that they would not make the mistakes of the past, that they were wiser, stronger and cleverer.

The fighting was everywhere now. Organised lines had long since been abandoned when it became clear that the Orcs were sneaking up on them from behind and from the sides as well. Orcs were creatures living in the mountains, and they made use of their knowledge now. The fighting was on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain now as well.

Caran wasn't even entirely sure yet why the Orcs were here. He had heard something about the Dwarves killing the Great Goblin of the Misty Mountains, but could that truly account for a battle of this magnitude? Maybe it could for Orcs. Caran remembered hearing something about a war lasting for nigh on a decade when the Dwarves' king had been beheaded and his corpse defiled. Elves would never do such a thing, neither the defiling nor the revenge mission that followed it. That was what he liked to think, anyway.

He stayed close to Aennen. His protégé seemed to have gotten it into his head that he was invincible, and he was reckless, shooting Orc after Orc, but having little care for what happened at his back. And that was a very dangerous thing. Spiders usually were too surprised and too overwhelmed to attack from above or behind, especially not when the Elves took away their advantage of height by attacking from the trees themselves. This didn't mean that spiders were easy to kill, not by a long way, but they were different.

'Watch your back, Aennen!' he called to the younger Elf.

Aennen favoured him with the briefest of glances. He was trying to put a brave face on things, but there was just a flicker of fear in his eyes that Caran had seen far too often in others'. He felt a surge of pity. Despite what Aennen had said, despite how he had behaved, he was still young and he had next to no experience on a real battlefield.

'I will,' the archer said. He even threw in a small smile.

Caran meant to reply, but the field of battle was no place for a conversation, and he lost himself in the dance of the fight. It had become instinct for him, something that – mostly – went without thinking. It wasn't something he took any particular pride in; it was necessary to be in the possession of such skills. They were a necessity of life.

And he was by no means an inexperienced warrior. Yet one might have assumed that when he looked in the direction from where a noise like thunder came. For a moment he was grounded into place as the wall that had been raised in front of the main gate of the Lonely Mountain came crashing down, taking down many Orcs in its fall. Had they broken it down? Was Erebor the real price they'd set their sights on? Caran couldn't tell.

And it didn't matter either. Because he had made a mistake, one his foes hadn't made. He heard a battle cry, but the warning it contained came too late. Caran's world exploded in pain.

* * *

**Next time: the battle continues, Dari is in a state of confusion, Aennen is terrified and there are Eagles on the horizon.**

**Please review? Some feedback would be really nice. I can't improve without it.**


	3. You Asked Me to Tell You the Truth

**Chapter 3**

**You Asked Me to Tell You the Truth**

The wall was falling, crumbling. Lóni only gave himself a very short time to determine what was happening, before he returned his full attention to the battle he was now in the thick of. And he was doing battle with his foes as much as he was doing battle with himself, with his own memories. There were far too many similarities between this fight and the Battle of Azanulbizar, and they were frightening, even more so because his son was out there somewhere, and Lóni had lost sight of him. He had lost sight of his father, too. The next time Lóni had seen him was when two of his kin were carrying his lifeless body to a pyre.

His kind didn't shy away from war, didn't shy away from bloodshed. Maybe the fact that he now did was what made him different from his kin. Maybe it were only the memories holding him back. There were so many Orcs, Lóni couldn't even begin to count them. He doubted he would want to count them. It would only make him lose heart, and that he could not afford. His son was still out there. He had sworn that he would keep a very close eye on the lad, but it was a promise he had ended up breaking, even though he had not broken it willingly. But such was the nature of battle.

Having said that, this battle seemed particularly chaotic. All battles were, people said, but even Azanulbizar had known a semblance of order. There had been front lines and rear guards. There weren't here. Everything had descended into absolute chaos. The enemy was everywhere, his allies were everywhere too. Somehow this had turned into a mess when he had not noticed, when he was too busy fighting for his life and those of his friends and allies. He had ended up fighting side by side with a young Man. When this battle was over, they would be on different sides again, but for now they would risk their lives for the other. It was one of those rules that applied to battles, something that was understood without saying it. Lóni knew it well. He didn't know if Dari knew, or that he felt how things were, even if he had not been told. As his father, he could only pray that someone out there was doing the same thing for Dari as Lóni was doing for his companion.

'It looks like there're more Orcs coming onto the field,' the Man reported. He was tall, towering over Lóni, and therefore in a better position to see what was happening further away from them. 'From the north,' he added, answering Lóni's unspoken question.

The Dwarf nodded. 'Good.' It wasn't good, but it was good to know what was coming, so that he could be prepared. The fight was ugly, extremely so, but here there were fewer Orcs. It didn't mean there wasn't any fighting, but not many Orcs made it to this place, not this close to the Mountain, even though they were still quite a distance away from the gate itself. 'What of the wall?'

'Fallen,' the Man replied. 'The fighting's heavier there, but I can't see much.'

Lóni hadn't expected it. He just battled on. Wasn't that all he could do? Sometime even this battle would end. He had a lingering suspicion that it would be a while still though.

* * *

Dari watched with grim satisfaction as the severed Orc head rolled downhill, making another Orc trip, allowing the Man nearby to end the appalling creature's existence. _Good_, he thought, even as he was trying to make sense of his own thoughts, and even more so of the anger that had seized him so unexpectedly. It seemed to be linked to the old Man's sudden and violent death, but that was strange. He hadn't cared for him. If truth be told, he had thought him rather annoying. But he had saved his life, and there was no question that he had paid for that bravery with his own life.

The rational part of Dari's mind knew that this Man was unlikely to have lived through the battle. He was too old, too weak, too feeble to be a real part of this. He would never have made it out alive and there was the truth of that. Still, it was the manner of the Man's death that confused Dari so much. They would have been enemies had this Orc army not come and changed everything, yet he had thrown himself at the Orc blade so that Dari would live. And he had seen in the Man's eyes that had been a conscious decision. And he didn't understand, not for the life of him.

And he didn't have any time to sit back and think it all over. There was a battle to be fought, and he was no coward that he would hide away until the fight was over and done with. That was not who he was. And so he threw himself back into the fray, fighting with renewed energy. It was not for revenge, he told himself. That Man had been nothing to him. It was only the manner of his death that made Dari's blood approach boiling point. Orcs were vile creatures and this only proved it.

He began to suspect that his Maker had a sense of irony though. There was no other reasonable explanation for the fact that he ended up fighting side by side with another Man. This one wasn't old. Quite the contrary, he was relatively young still, probably of a mental age with Dari himself. He sure wasn't used to fighting, if the way he held and swung his sword was any indication. Dari had to duck a few times to make sure his head remained on his shoulders. Not that he thought the Man could swing that weapon forcefully enough to cut off a Dwarf's head, but it would be messy and bloody, and he could ill afford an injury now.

'Watch it, lad!' he shouted as the sword came dangerously close to his face again. If he hadn't known any better, he would have though it the Man's aim to kill him. It wasn't that far-fetched a theory, considering the conflict that had brought them here in the first place.

'It's not your business how I fight!' Anger. That was all Dari could see and hear.

'It is my business when you're endangering my life, and the lives of your own people at that,' Dari countered. They may be of a mental age, but Dari at least had been trained to handle weapons, and he handled his axe with deadly precision as he killed an Orc that seemed to have been going for the Man's head.

'Aye, you'd know all about endangering my people's lives,' his companion snarled. 'Why should I believe you care now?'

Dwarves didn't generally hold with deceit, and Dari's control over his temper had always been very far from perfect, and so he answered true. 'I don't care.' And if he had been given a good excuse, he would have fought these Men and these Elves who were so arrogant as to presume that they were owed a share of the wealth that had never been theirs and would never be theirs either if he had anything to say in the matter. If these Orcs hadn't come, he would have faced this Man on the battlefield, as a foe.

'Was that why you set a dragon on my little sister?'

Dari hadn't strictly speaking anything to do with any dragon-related problem, but he knew enough to say with absolute certainty that no one had meant to set a dragon on anything, least of all little girls. What happened to the town of the Men of the Long Lake had been a tragic accident, nothing more and nothing less. In Dari's opinion it was no one's fault but the dragon's. And at least that beast had been killed. The Men had been granted their revenge on the drake and that should have been the end of it. How they got that ridiculous notion into their heads that this would give them a right to the wealth of Erebor was far beyond Dari's comprehension.

'The dragon set itself on your town,' Dari snapped. He was getting distracted by this whole pointless argument, and so, he feared, was the lad, whose already bad fighting skills were decreasing even further very rapidly. 'My people had nothing to do with what happened. And you got your revenge, didn't you?' And that was as far as it should go. But Men were greedy, maybe even more so than they claimed Dwarves were.

The Man's mouth opened in response, but Dari never heard the answer that came out of it. All he heard was a fierce battle cry, the way Orcish battle cries were, and he swivelled around to face the threat. But there was nothing he could do. He had been too distracted. He could only take the blow.

* * *

'Is that why you set a dragon on my little sister?' Einar snapped. How it had come to this – him arguing with a Dwarf whose name he didn't know over the tragedy that had befallen his people as a result of Dwarves' actions, and that in the middle of an ongoing battle – he'd never know, but it had happened and now the rage was taking over again. Chances were that this particular Dwarf had nought to do with it; he didn't look like one of the thirteen that had stayed in town for a few weeks. Of course there was no way to be absolutely certain; to him all Dwarves looked alike. But he had certainly come here to defend his precious gold, and that made him as bad as the so-called King under the thrice-cursed Mountain in Einar's eyes.

'The dragon set itself on your town!' the Dwarf retorted, anger marring his features. His kind may be small, but Einar for one would never make the mistake of thinking them harmless, especially not now, faced with the undeniable wrath in this one's eyes. 'My people had nothing to do with what happened. And you got your revenge, didn't you?'

Was that all these gem-crazy Dwarves could care about? Gold, blood and revenge. It seemed to be all they were capable of caring for. Ilúvatar should never have permitted them to live, not if this was the result.

He meant to say that, meant to hurl all his anger, all his rage and grief at this one Dwarf who represented everything he so despised, but the words died on his lips. The Dwarf was only small, and he could look over his head easily enough, well enough to see the Orc approaching. It was in that moment that Einar realised he had made a rather grave mistake. He had gotten distracted, had turned his attention away from the battle. Oh, he had been dealing blows as well, but more and more of his mind had been taken up with blaming this Dwarf for everything that had gone wrong with his life of late. And that was something he should have saved for after the battle.

And he wasn't the one to pay the price for this mistake. He could rest assured in the knowledge that his back was still covered by his own people, battling on behind him. The same could not be said about the Dwarf, who had turned to face Einar and had therefore left his back completely unguarded. The Orc approached, raised the sword and cried out in that tone and tongue that gave Einar a desperate impulse to run for cover.

The Dwarf heard, of course he did. For all his many faults – and Einar had little trouble finding faults, and much trouble finding good – he was probably a battle-hardened warrior and he turned around to face the threat. He was too late, and Einar could only watch as the Orc's blade cut seemingly effortlessly through armour and flesh, grinning a grin that revealed terrifying and very sharp, if blood-stained and dirty, teeth.

It was that sight that spurred Einar into action. He had a sword in his hand, and at least some basic knowledge of how to use one. While the Orc's sword was still embedded in the Dwarf's body, and he was therefore in no danger of being subjected to the same treatment, he thrust his weapon forward. It went over the Dwarf's head and into the Orc's throat. Black blood came out of it, a reflection of the darkness of the soul, if Orcs even had souls to speak of, something Einar rather doubted.

But the real damage had been done. The Orc collapsed to the ground, but so did the Dwarf. Guilt washed over Einar, and that was something he had not expected to feel for one of that kind. If he hadn't picked a fight with this Dwarf, he might yet be standing. He wasn't standing now and, by the looks of it, would never stand again. He may hate his people for the dragon and for their love of gold, but he had never meant to cause anything of this magnitude to happen. He might as well given the Orcs a hand, he might as well have wielded the sword himself. He had been the one to distract the Dwarf.

The Dwarf, had he still been alive to say it, would probably have said that he'd had his revenge and that would have been the end of it. And yes, he'd had his revenge. But it was not the end of it. It didn't ease his guilty conscience, which he didn't even understand since the Dwarf had been labelled as a foe in his mind. Or maybe that was exactly why this was so difficult to handle. Because he hadn't cared for him, he may or may not have done everything in his power to prevent this from happening.

Either way, sometimes revenge just wasn't enough. And there was nothing he could do now, save fight. And as giant Eagles soared overhead, that was exactly what he did.

* * *

'The Eagles are coming!' Aennen couldn't say who first picked up the call, but he knew that suddenly many were calling it, and it was true. If he looked up – which he didn't dare to do too much for fear some Orc would cut his throat when he wasn't paying attention – he could see them. And they were huge, huge and very impressive. Aennen had seen Eagles in his three hundred years, but he had never seen ones that were so huge. He had heard of their existence, of course, but never once had he himself laid eyes on them. He did that day, as he stood watch over Caran's injured body, fighting off any Orc that attempted to deal his mentor the final blow.

He had lost track of time long ago, just as he had lost his bow a little later. Now he had taken up Caran's sword, dropped by the older Elf when he had fallen, wielding it as best he could against the ever-growing number of Orcs. But there were so many of them, and Aennen's arms were getting ever heavier. _Elves may be strong, but we are not invincible._ It was one of Caran's often repeated lines. _And even the most skilled and strongest of our kind can be overwhelmed by numbers, or by exhaustion and lapses of judgement._

How ironic that a lapse of judgement had been Caran's own undoing. When the wall had come down, he had looked, and in that time an Orc had run him through. Caran was still drawing breath when Aennen last looked, but even though he was no experienced healer, he knew that it was only a matter of time before his heart would stop beating.

And this had terrified him more than anything else he had seen today. His mentor had been right in saying that this was nothing like fighting spiders, which he in his arrogance had not believed for even a second. And so it had come to this: him standing to defend Caran's body.

It was the best thing he could do. He had never been in a battle before, but he knew enough to know for certain that this battle had turned against them. There were too many Orcs, and too few of the Free Folk. And their numbers were decreasing. Whatever advantage – however small – the crumbling of the wall and the emergence of the small company of Dwarves of Erebor had given them was long gone. If there was any hope at all, it came in the form of the Eagles that were now swooping down, picking up Orcs and throwing them down from great height on others of that vile race, scattering them, breaking their lines, coming to the aid of the Free Folk.

Meanwhile all he could do was fight. And if he had to choose a spot to make a stand, then this was it. Caran may be beyond help, even if there had been healers nearby, but he would not let his corpse be defiled by these beasts. But his strength was running out, and it was running out fast. He was not sure how long he could still hold on. The Eagles were helping in turning the tide of the battle, but would it be sufficient? Aennen could not tell. How was he supposed to; he had never seen a real battle before.

He was panting now, fighting for breath now as well as he was trying to keep the Orcs at arm's length. It was not very elvish of him, he supposed, but it happened all the same. Where all these Orcs kept coming from he didn't know and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Either way, it mattered not. The only thing he cared about right now was to keep them as far away from him as possible.

And then it was over, just like that. He heard a sound like a strong wind coming down from somewhere behind him. It went over him and then a shadow followed. The next moment the attacking Orcs were gone, caught in talons so big that Aennen would have fit in them thrice over, if not more. There was screeching and screaming, but it died away soon as the Eagle took the Orcs higher and higher.

Aennen didn't bother to look where they were taken; as long as it was far away, he was content. He merely knelt next to Caran, choosing not to look at the bleeding wound. Caran's face was deathly pale, but he was breathing and still hanging on to consciousness.

'How bad?' he asked. 'Tell me the truth.'

Aennen had been about to soften the blow by saying that it looked bad, but that there was still a chance of recovery. Wasn't that the kind of thing one said to a dying warrior? Was he not supposed to keep Caran's spirit up, to help him hang on to life? That might have been in vain anyway. Caran had seen so many battles, so many injuries and deaths that he could in all likelihood tell the truth of the situation for himself.

'Bad,' he said. 'Too bad.' The whole truth, _you're dying_, he couldn't speak. But truth it was. And as Aennen watched over his old friend he quite missed the fact that a gigantic black bear finally turned the tide of the battle.

* * *

**This Chapter turned out a bit different from how I planned, and it took me a few re-writes and a couple days longer than I had anticpated to get it right. Apologies for the delay. I promise you, the next chapter won't take this long.**

**Only one chapter left to go now. Please review?**


	4. Reveal Their Fate As I Saw It

**Chapter 4**

**Reveal Their Fate As I Saw It**

It was over. Einar forced himself to keep on thinking it, so that he might start to believe it for himself. For now it felt too surreal, almost as if it could not possibly be true. But here he was, staring out over the battlefield, still in one piece, still breathing, when so many others were not.

He had suffered some minor wounds, but the bleeding had long since stopped. He would be fine. He would have the chance to go back to his brother and he could pick up the pieces and try to build a new life. There would always live people near the Long Lake as long as there was trade to be had, and Einar was an able fisher.

He found himself looking out over the field of battle. All of a sudden the concerns about gold didn't seem all that important anymore, not compared to the enormous loss of life he had witnessed here. Nothing compared. So many had died, but the face that Einar kept seeing was that of the Dwarf whose name he had never even known. The guilt hadn't gone. It was still there.

And yet they had been almost enemies. Neither of them had wanted the alliance. There wasn't much to be told from the conversation they'd had – if it could indeed be called that – but that much even Einar could tell. If truth be told, they had not behaved as allies. They had been like cats snarling at one another, both well and truly distracted from the fight. And the Dwarf had paid for that mistake with his life.

But so many had died. Death was present all around him, and it left him wondering how he was even still alive when so many skilled warriors were now lying dead on the ground. True, he could boast of some skill, albeit not much, but most of it, he feared, was down to luck, ridiculous amounts of luck, more luck than most of the dead could claim. It seemed so unfair that he was still alive while they were not.

The ground was littered with corpses. The Orcs were on the run, running as fast as their legs could carry them, but Einar did not join their pursuers. There were those who were more skilled, more suited to that task. He did not count himself among their number, but neither was he a healer that he could lend a hand to aid the wounded. He could only offer his physical strength in retrieving bodies and carrying the wounded to the healers, of which there were only too few. No doubt a great number of wounded would not live through the night, all for want of medical help.

Einar would do what he could. It was all he could do, all that everyone did, those who were still capable of walking upright. They were a sad sight, all of them. Einar was assigned to carry wounded back to a couple of tents that were being raised at the moment, anyone who still had a chance of being saved. It was an Elf who instructed him, kindly as he could, to only bring those that could be saved. _Let the dying be_. Einar heard the words that weren't spoken, but there wasn't any need for gentleness or tact. There was only sense in it.

He worked together with one of his former neighbours, a taciturn man in his mid-thirties. The young fisher didn't know how his family had fared in the dragon attack, and he daren't ask either. To his relief his companion didn't ask about his. Inga was still a sore topic of conversation and Einar wasn't all that sure he could talk about her without succumbing to tears. And he would not start crying, for if he did, he probably wouldn't be able to stop.

They worked in companionable silence, carrying Men, Elves and Dwarves alike back to the healers' tents. Soon enough the issue of the gold would be raised anew, now that the greater threat had been removed, but not yet, not today. Einar still stood by his point, that the Dwarves needed to pay, to recompense the Men of the Long Lake for what they had done. _You've had your revenge_, the Dwarf had said, but Einar now knew from experience that revenge didn't right the wrongs. After all, he had avenged the Dwarf's death – and he still didn't understand his own reaction to his demise – but it had done nothing to ease the guilt he felt. Something more would be needed for that.

He was only just thinking that when he caught sight of a familiar face. The Dwarf, now cradled in the arms of an older Dwarf – he had streaks of grey in his hair at least – was only several yards away from him. To Einar all Dwarves looked alike, but he could have sworn these two looked even more alike than others. Family, he reckoned, maybe even father and son. The older Dwarf was crying.

Einar couldn't say what made him do it. He had not even consciously decided to do it, but his feet carried him towards the Dwarves – dead and alive – all the same. But it weren't his feet that bothered him, as much as his mouth, that seemed to have taken on a life of its own. 'I am sorry,' he said.

The Dwarf looked up, something akin to understanding in his eyes. 'Were you with him, lad?'

Einar didn't know how he knew. He didn't think it was possible for the Dwarf to know what had happened. For all he knew he was just a sympathetic young man paying his respects. But then, normal young Men would not speak to Dwarves of their own volition.

'I was,' he confirmed. _He died because I distracted him and he didn't have the time to defend himself._ 'He died bravely.' There was truth in that as well. The Dwarf had never demonstrated anything that even looked like fear. 'But I am afraid I didn't even know his name.'

'Dari,' the Dwarf said. 'He was called Dari.' Until very recently Einar had not believed Dwarves capable of emotions other than anger and jealousy, but he saw the error of his ways now. Tears were mingling with the blood on the Dwarf's face. He cried tears of blood.

* * *

It was over. The realisation dawned only very slowly on Aennen, and part of him even felt afraid that it was nothing but a mere dream, and he could come to his senses in the middle of the battle. But this was reality and it was over.

Tales had always told the young Elf of battles won, and the glorious victories achieved, but there was nothing at all glorious about the sight that met his eyes. The ground was littered with corpses, Men, Dwarves and Elves alike. Originally the Elves had kept to themselves – Aennen had not even truly left the spot he had been in when the battle first began – but when it had all become this chaotic, everyone has swarmed out over the field, ending up in places they had not expected to be in.

But not him. He had remained where he was, standing watch over Caran's body. He clenched his fists and bit back the tears that threatened to spill over at the thought of his mentor. Caran had been so old, so experienced, whereas he was only a youngling by the reckoning of their kind, a reckless young fool with more ego than sense. Of course he had laughed at the notion beforehand, but that was before he had lived through this battle. And somehow it seemed terribly unfair that Caran, with all those years of experience under his belt, should have died and he should have lived. Mind you, he had not wanted to die – still didn't have any inclination to – but it wasn't fair. It decidedly wasn't fair.

He carried Caran's lifeless body away from the field. He really didn't know what else to do. It was as Caran had said; he had never before seen real battle. How was he to know what should be done?

In the end one of his kinsmen told him to search the field and look for survivors that still stood a chance at recovery. Everyone he could find, whether they be Elves, Men or even Dwarves. The notion of that made Aennen scowl at the healer. If not for the greed of Dwarves, they would never have been here. They could have been safe inside their woods and they would not be dragged into this dreadful business. Of course it wasn't as if the Dwarves had invited the Orcs to come and fight, but still.

And despite his orders, he steered well clear from the Dwarves. There were many others searching the field of battle, many who could take the Dwarves to the healers. He didn't have to do it. He had his own people to consider, and those were the ones he would help. If it had not been for dwarvish greed, Caran would be alive still.

Tears were burning behind his eyes, but if he dared to cry them, the end would be lost, and that was something he could not do, not yet. Not today. He would save his grief and mourning for a time and a place when he was alone, not surrounded by people he rather would count as enemies than he would count them as friends.

He didn't know how long he had been going on for. It must have been hours. Darkness had fallen a long time ago, but no one mentioned giving up the search for the night. Torches had been brought out and distributed to everyone who could still manage to set one foot in front of the other. To Aennen it seemed like most of the Men were still helping, the very ones he had assumed would give up come nightfall. Caran always had demonstrated some reluctant respect for that race, even if Aennen found himself incapable of sharing it. Now he did though. Their race was weak and short-lived, but here they were, doing all that they could.

The moon rose overhead, bathing the field in a strange mixture of moonlight and the light of the torches. Seeing it like this, it felt surreal, and for some reason far less horrid than it looked by daylight. The dark took the sharp edges off the scene, leaving only forms and shapes. Elves had sharp eyes, that could see very well in this light, so maybe it was only because he chose not to see the things he didn't want to see.

He didn't see a face when he noticed someone sitting on his knees in the middle of the field, clutching another form to his chest. It was difficult to see what race he belonged to, not when this person's back was half turned towards him. Of course there was the risk that he was a Dwarf, but he had never heard of Dwarves mourning their dead so passionately. Were they even capable of emotions other than anger and resentment? Aennen rather doubted it.

And it seemed that he had made the right call. The one he approached sported a beard, but only a very short one, the way some Men had them. He was small, admittedly, but that must be because he was sitting on the ground. No one was tall then.

It was only when he had come to close to turn away, when the person on the ground actually looked up at him, that he saw that he had made a mistake. The beard may be short, but this was a Dwarf looking up at him, holding the lifeless body of another Dwarf. Aennen's first impulse was to turn tail and run, but he was no coward. He didn't run, especially not from Dwarves.

And he didn't even think that he could run, even if he wanted to. There was something in the eyes of this Dwarf that grounded him in place, a sadness so deep that Aennen felt his hurt in the aching of his own chest. Had he been wrong about Dwarves and their emotions? Were they capable of it after all? It turned Aennen's entire world upside down. Had he been wrong? No, he had been right about dwarvish greed. There was no escaping that notion; the facts spoke for themselves. It was just that maybe not all dwarves were as greedy as he had assumed. That in itself was quite enough to process.

* * *

It was over, Lóni told himself. The sad thing was that it didn't just apply to the battle. There was a pain in his chest that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. Not that Lóni was of a mind to think overly much, but he couldn't seem to help himself. His mind kept going round and round in circles, in comparing the now and the then, finding far too much similarities between the two. He recalled only too well the body he'd cradled in his arms then. Only this time it felt like the heartbreak was worse. This time he was holding his own son, and not just his younger brother. Dari wasn't any older than Róni had been either, and Lóni cursed himself for the worst father in Middle Earth for ever losing sight of his lad.

At the same time he knew there was nothing to be done. It was the nature of battle. It didn't make the loss any easier to bear. Some people might worry about what to say to their wives, but he could not even think beyond his own grief yet, never mind that he could face the grief of others. His boy, his little lad, was gone, and somehow that was all that mattered.

He'd cut his beard the moment he found the body, on the very spot. It had been a long one, and it had taken decades to make it what it was. It was gone in less than a minute, half cut, half torn out in grief when he found he could no longer coordinate his movements as he ought to.

_He died bravely_, the Mannish lad had said. It should have been a comfort to know that his only child had died with honour, and so it would be to many parents. Once Lóni might have counted it as one of the greatest compliments to be paid to the fallen and their families. The words sounded hollow and empty now. Could they bring his boy back to life? Did they offer any real consolation? Lóni rather doubted it. Maybe he would be consoled by that knowledge later, be grateful for the fact that Dari had died a hero and not a coward. He just couldn't feel it yet.

Time passed, but Lóni hardly noticed its passing. He might have turned into stone, into one of the statues still gracing the mountain sides, albeit they were not still in one piece. Lóni was, although he didn't feel like it.

He must have been there for hours, he reckoned, for it was dark when he heard the footsteps. They were too softly to belong to either Dwarves or Men. This was the way Elves moved, and he couldn't think of one reason why any of them would venture near him of their own volition. Lóni would never go as far as to blame the Elves for that battle and its consequences – that fault was the Orcs' and theirs alone – but he didn't want to see them either. He didn't want to see anyone.

Nevertheless he looked up, right into the face of an Elf. A warrior, he reckoned, going by his blood-stained armour. It was black blood, though, so clearly not his own. Age was difficult to guess, even less so with only the light of the torch the Elf held in his hands to go by. Elves were so hard to read; Lóni could hardly ever make anything of them, never mind that he could guess at their ages. Their faces were as ageless as they were beardless. They were said to be beautiful as well, although if there was beauty to be found in Elves, Lóni had yet to see it.

This Elf was a little less difficult to read than others of his kind though. There was something that had made that mask of indifference and arrogance slip, just enough to reveal something akin to shock. That was what it looked like to him.

'Was he your son?' the Elf asked. It sounded hesitant, as if the speaker wasn't entirely sure he wanted to ask the question, as if he wanted to run away. Young, Lóni judged.

Having said that, he was equally uncertain that he wanted to answer the question. He did it all the same. 'Aye, he was.'

And he was proud to have been Dari's father. He could never feel ashamed of that, not when his lad was everything a father could possibly wish for in a son. 'He died with honour.' The words did nothing to ease his pain, that was so intense that it was almost physical. Only when he spoke the words for himself was he able to gain some comfort from them. Nothing could replace Dari, not if he lived to be a thousand years, but they added to the pride and love he felt for his son. Dari had been brave in the face of danger, and how could Lóni ever fault him for that when courage was ranked so highly among his people?

'I am sorry,' the Elf said.

The reaction was instant. 'I need none of your pity.' He had not yet sunken so low that he was to be pitied by Elves.

Most Elves would have turned his back on him, complaining of the stubbornness and pride of Dwarves, but not this one. He must be younger than Lóni had thought. Either that or he was more shocked than he let on at first. 'I do not offer you pity, Master Dwarf.' The words were haughty, but the eyes were sending a different message. _I understand, I sympathise_. He really was young then. One older would never have shown such vulnerability to one they considered an enemy not all that long ago, whereas this one had clearly had his world turned upside down.

'Who was it then?' Lóni demanded. He tried not to sound unkind, but grief had turned his voice rough, and he sounded angrier than he had intended.

One eyebrow arched almost elegantly. 'I do not understand your meaning, I fear.'

'Who did you lose?' Lóni asked, in different words.

Understanding dawned, or that was what he thought. This Elf may be easier to read than others, but that didn't mean it was suddenly easy. 'My mentor. His name was Caran.'

Lóni only nodded. To offer his sympathies now that he had so forcefully dismissed the Elf's would be nothing short of hypocrisy and Dwarves didn't hold with that.

The Elf hesitated for a moment, but then spoke again. 'I didn't mean insult to either you or your son, Master Dwarf, when I spoke before.'

'I know, lad. I know that you did not.' This was one of the strangest conversations he'd ever had, but for some reason this Elf reminded him of Dari. He usually acted before he thought, and was uncertain about his actions once he'd had the time to have a think. 'I did not take offence.'

'How did you know?' the Elf demanded, somewhat haughty now. 'How did you know that I'd lost someone?' It sounded like it was something he did not want himself to ask, but he couldn't stop himself from doing exactly that either.

'It's not the first battle I've seen,' Lóni replied curtly. Hopefully the lad knew his history and would leave it at that.

He should have known Elves were never that obliging, meddlesome creatures that they were. 'Then you have lost people before, sir?' The respectful sir was a surprise to Lóni. The Elf looked at him as if he was his elder, which he probably was not.

'Aye, I have.' Lóni couldn't even say why he replied. Strictly speaking they were probably enemies again, now that the battle was over and done with. 'My father and brother died burned Dwarves.' When he realised that this did not hold the same meaning to the Elf as it did to Dwarves, he added: 'They fell before the gates of Khazad-dûm, which you know as Moria.'

The name Moria finally made the Elf understand. 'The Battle of Nanduhirion,' he said. 'I have heard of it.' He hesitated. 'I do not condone the actions of your people, but I am sorry for your losses.' He looked at Dari, and Lóni almost instinctively wanted to cover his son's body from the inquisitive gaze the Elf directed at him. Dari was not something to be stared at, especially not by Elves; he had been worth more than that. Something stopped him from doing that, though. There didn't seem to be any malice in this Elf's eyes, just loss and bewilderment. 'How do you cope, sir?'

The question was so unexpected that Lóni answered true. 'We remember,' he replied. 'And we go on.' What else was there to be done? After all, battles did not have happy endings.

"_And for those who will never come home,_

_We'll write their names on stones._

_A million reluctant heroes."_

Tears of Blood, Karliene

* * *

**That was the final chapter. A tad bit sad, I suppose, but that's battles for you. BrightWatcher asked for a list of characters, so I included my own notes on them below. I hope this is what you wanted.**

**Characters:**

**Dwarves: **

**Lóni, survivor, resides in the Iron Hills. Veteran of the Battle of Azanulbizar, in which he lost his father and younger brother. Axe is weapon of choice.**

**Dari, his son. Bit of a hothead from time to time. Dies during the battle by an Orc blade, which he had not seen because he was distracted by a Man by the name of Einar. Like his father, he favours the axe over the sword.**

**Elves: **

**Caran, Mirkwood resident, part of the guard. Was born during the First Age and has seen a great many battles. Level-headed warrior. Dies during the battle by Orc blade. Fights with a sword if he can, but can wield most weapons available if necessary.**

**Aennen, Caran's protégé, survivor. Mirkwood resident, spent all his life there. About three hundred years old, relatively inexperienced and rather reckless. The Battle of the Five Armies is his first true battle, although he's been on several campaigns to rid Mirkwood of spiders. Aennen mostly uses his bow in a fight, but does well with a sword if he has to.**

**Men:**

**Iwar, old man (about sixty years old) from Lake-town, blacksmith, lost most of his family in the dragon attack, doesn't really reckon life's worth living anymore. Dies during the battle as he takes the sword meant for the Dwarf Dari. Fights with a sword, but has never been in a battle before.**

**Einar, young man (early twenties), resident of Lake-town, survivor. Lost his sister in the dragon attack. Wants the dwarves to pay. Very angry guy. Fights with a sword. Knows some self-defence, but has never fought for real. Survives mostly because of a lot of luck.**

**I hope you enjoyed the tale. Please review?**


End file.
